Til the Tree Die
by Tarlea
Summary: Three years after her painful parting with Sir Anthony Strallan, Edith Crawley returns to Locksley House. The reconciliation that Fellowes ought to write, and what follows, in three parts.
1. Part I

"Hang there like a fruit, my soul,

Til the tree die!"—_Cymbeline_, Act V, Scene V

Part I

The sun shone through the midafternoon trees, dancing through the windshield and across Edith's face as her car sped down the country lane that led to Locksley. She braced herself for what might happen next, but she was determined she _would_ see him.

It was an argument she had fought and won with herself in London, when she had heard that Sir Anthony Strallan was taken ill. She was naturally seized with a desired to see him, and after some internal debate she had decided that she was a grown woman and she would do as she liked. Never mind that three years ago this same man had abandoned her at the altar, and that she had had little or no contact with him since, or that it had been just under four months since she had ended things with Michael Gregson. Not entirely impervious to the world's censure, Edith had concealed her plans to visit Yorkshire from her family, and had motored straight from the station in a hired car.

She pulled into the familiar drive, thinking how good it was to behold the mansion's pillared façade once more. Robinson met her at the door, and with experienced training concealed his shock at seeing Lady Edith Crawley standing once again in the entrance of Locksley House.

"I regret," said the butler, calculating every syllable, "that Sir Anthony is not at liberty to receive visitors at present. He is unwell."

"Yes, I know," Edith stated.

"Then I know you will understand—" began Robinson, trying to usher her out the door, but Edith didn't move.

"Forgive me, Robinson, but I've come all the way from London this morning and I won't be fobbed off. That is-," Edith corrected her slangish town speech, an unfortunate habit of working with newspaper people, "I will not leave until I have seen him."

The aged servant considered her for a moment, but he could see that three years had made Lady Edith an even more formidable woman than before.

"Very well, miss. I'll tell him you're here."

Robinson shuffled off in the direction of what Edith knew was the library. Suddenly nervous, Edith took advantage of the ornate mirror at her elbow to appraise her appearance. She was wearing a blouse-topped day dress of a soft blue-green that set off her hair and eyes becomingly and a vibrant painted scarf of the same blue, pink, and orange wound around her careful curls. She hoped, childishly she told herself, that her appearance would not go unnoticed by Sir Anthony.

The library was only half-lit, most of the drapes having been drawn for its inhabitant's convalescence. A large old-fashioned wingback chair had been moved into the room and in it, looking pale and drawn and noticeably agitated was Sir Anthony Strallan. For a few seconds Edith stood still, willing her breathing to become normal, examining this man who had once been, and still was, so precious to her. Sir Anthony was doing the same, his expressive eyes a mixture of guilt and delight. His raised eyebrows told her that the outfit had had the desired effect.

"Hello," Edith said shyly.

"Hello," he replied dumbly. Then, recalled to propriety he said, "please, sit."

Edith did. A beat passed.

"You look very well," Sir Anthony uttered, with the incurable honesty that Edith always elicited in him. He didn't confess that he thought her the loveliest he had ever seen her.

"So do you," Edith said warmly, though in truth his appearance concerned her.

"Oh well, I have been ill," he said dismissively.

"Yes, I heard. That's why I came. I wanted to see how you did."

He smiled at her, as if to say _thank you, my dearest one_.

"But truly, are you well?" Edith asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes," he asserted. "Silly old family thing. Nothing to worry about. On the mend, really. And you?"

"Oh yes, a true cosmopolitan," Edith replied breezily.

"Yes, I've read your column. Gripping stuff," he said sincerely.

To her surprise, Edith blushed. Anthony smiled.

"Do you like living in London?"

"I do," she said, gazing out the window. "But I find myself missing the country," she turned her wide eyes to his face, and Sir Anthony's heart gave an unexpected jump at the implication.

"I see," was all he said, but he was grinning, and his eyes brimmed with affection.

The visit soon warmed beyond pleasantries and the two chatted until late afternoon shadows stretched long into the library and Edith noticed Sir Anthony's face drooping with fatigue.

As Edith stood to take her leave, Anthony stretched out his good arm and squeezed her hand in farewell. It was the first time they had touched in almost three years, and the tension showed on both their countenances. Anthony's mouth opened to say something, and then closed into a weak smile.

"Good evening, Sir Anthony," Edith said, turning to go. "I'll be back tomorrow," she threw over her shoulder as she slipped through the library door.

Behind her, Anthony sighed.

* * *

And so began a near idyllic month. Every day Edith paid a visit to Locksley where she and Anthony would chat, and dine, and walk, and as Anthony's health improved, they even went for a few pleasant drives. It was almost as if nothing had ever occurred between them. And yet, their relationship was undeniably deeper than it had been in those years before and after the war. The family cajoled and bullied, the servants and the neighborhood gossiped and tutted and shook their heads sadly, but Edith persisted in her visits.

Sir Anthony, at first elated by Edith's sudden reappearance, and all too happy to fall into their old, comfortable, acquaintance, soon expressed his concerns.

"Edith," Sir Anthony broached the subject one evening as they were huddled at one end of Locksley's grand dining parlour, "You know, nothing's changed. I'm of course delighted to see you, and to spend time with you, but you musn't—"

"I don't at all agree," Edith replied staunchly, sounding so familiar that Anthony smiled involuntarily. "A great deal has changed."

"Yes, but my darling, surely you must know—"

"I know that I cannot force you to be my husband," she argued, "and _you_ cannot force _me_ away."

"I will stand at your door and throw pebbles at your window if I have to," she joked.

He laughed.

"Oh dear, I suppose I'll have to spare you that."

And the subject dropped. Anthony seemed resigned, and never again did he urge Edith, against his own desires, to leave.

One evening, about a month after she had first arrived at Locksley, with the fire glowing dim in the drawing room, and a March rain shushing against the windowpanes, Edith and Anthony were sitting on the couch, drowsily sipping the last of their wine and talking companionably about his plans to improve his family seat. Edith, with her legs curled up on the sofa before her, thought to herself that she had truly found perfect contentment. She'd come to Locksley partly to decide whether she still loved Anthony, and it had not taken long for her to realize that she still did. Yet it was only in this intimate, domestic moment that she realized just how deeply she had fallen. No longer did she love Anthony with a girl's desperate longing, but a woman's tender devotion. Anthony had often said that Edith had given him a gift, revitalized his life, and here as Edith watched the soft light falling on the changing shapes of his angular features as he continued his explanations, she was struck by an overwhelming desire to show him just how precious a gift he had given _her_.

She put down her glass and moved towards him, ceasing his conversation, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. She leaned in, placing a hand on his chest and planting a kiss in her customary spot, just to the left of his mouth. He inhaled sharply as she did so, exhaling a faint protest. "Edith-"

Until now their rekindled relationship had been warm, yet platonic, save for the gentle endearments and light compliments which slipped unconsciously into Anthony's conversation whenever Edith was in his presence.

She ignored his utterance, planting still more slow kisses on his cheek, his neck, and finally his lips, brief tender kisses which Anthony drank in, reeling in the simple bliss of them, sheer joy of her nearness and pure adoration swelling his heart. For a few wonderful moments he gave himself up to the sensation, relishing the long-forgotten rush of passion that even now awakened his carnal instincts and urged him to pursue the promise of his beloved's soft, willing form. He felt Edith's hand deftly undo his tie and begin to twist open his top button, and this recalled him to his senses.

"Edith," he protested again, breathily, as she continued to work his shirt open and plant dizzying kisses on his bare chest, "Edith, please…..you musn't…..Edith, my darling…..you've got to stop….Edith…"

"Edith—" he became more insistent, "Edith—_You are not my wife_!" He said firmly, pushing her roughly away from him.

A long moment passed.

"I should have been," she said, in a tone that was at once sorrowful, bitter, and matter-of-fact.

He grimaced, using his good hand to clutch his shirt closed. "My dear, I'm sorry. It's not that I don't…_want you_…" He looked feelingly at her, his voice lowered. "You have no idea how much…I want to…share that kind of relationship with you. But I _won't_ do that to you, when you are not my wife," he said in his decided way.

He gazed at her, his face pinched with guilt. She looked distraught, but there was something beyond his confession in her mind. He read the unspoken in her countenance. "Good God!" he exclaimed softly, "You're not-a maid-anymore."

Edith shook her head slowly.

He sat stunned, his jaw set in a grim line. Edith began to cry silently. When she spoke her voice was small and strangled and filled with the heartbreak and regret of all her disappointments.

"It was a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. And I'm tired of making them."

Silence.

"I was just—trying to be happy. Trying to find..." she trailed off as tears streamed down her face and remorse and heartache threatened to burn a hole in her chest. She'd never meant to tell him. It was a decision. A decision of which she had never been ashamed-until she saw it through Anthony's eyes.

Anthony processed the shock. His sense of propriety was strong, but he fleetingly decided he didn't care. The world had changed them both, and he had witnessed far worse assaults on propriety in Europe during the war. But he was saddened that Edith should have been forced to such a choice.

"Of course you were, my darling. It's my fault. All of it. From the very beginning. I should never have… But I—this-would just be another mistake." He paused. "That is why you _must_ leave," he insisted.

Edith rose up in anger. Everyone had told her what to do regarding Anthony. Her grandmother, her father, and even Anthony. Anthony, who should have known her better. Anthony, who was still trying to be so bloody noble.

"When may I be allowed to be old enough to know my own mind?!," she shot at him. "In ten years? Will I be old enough for you then?! In twenty? When shall you be satisfied?! How many men must there be before you will realize that I know that I want _you_. And _only_ you."

The thought of Edith with other men struck a pang within him. Especially the thought of Edith sharing their beds…..But he couldn't wish her the life of a drudge either. And if they ever did finally breach the marriage bed…..he knew she would be bitterly disappointed.

"I can't believe that. There must be other men…younger men…who could give you the kind of life you deserve…not…this…" he gestured to his bad arm.

"Right," said Edith, finally and brutally making the arguments she had wanted to three years ago, "So shall I marry Paul Harris, who is two years younger than me and already in a wheelchair? Or perhaps James Reid, who's blind? He's only thirty-three you know, so it's not so bad. Or there's Freddie Fergussen-who's half-mad with gas poisoning, but still terribly good-looking—"

"Edith," Anthony pleaded softly, his eyes glassy with tears.

Edith stopped, still fuming, her hands clutching the edge of the sofa, tears wetting her flushed cheeks.

"What's more-I love you," she said plainly.

With their mutual affection their sentiments had always been understood, but never spoken. They had never seemed to need to before, and yet somehow, after all these years, the declaration was significant.

Anthony stood shakily, turning away from her hopeful gaze. He stood for a moment, his shoulders hunched, his face stretched in agony. He knew he must do what was right. He had decided a long time ago, and he was nothing if not a man of decision. And yet he was tired of struggling against his desires. He _did_ want Edith—almost more than he could bear anymore-and even if only for a few sweet years, she wanted _him_.

"God help me!" He expostulated and turned back towards her. In a moment he had crossed to her and hooked his good arm around her waist. He drew her into a powerful embrace, an embrace that released all the longing of the past five years and all the ardour he usually kept so neatly in check.

When he finally pulled away, his shining blue eyes gazed deep into Edith's radiant ones.

"Very well," he whispered breathlessly, "be my wife, my dear, darling, Edith."

She laughed joyously and kissed him again.

* * *

A/N: I wrote this story with strong intention for this scene, the kind of reconciliation I hope to see in canon. The following two chapters, I feel, are not nearly as strong, so if you would like to stop here and call it a oneshot, feel free, and then go to my Favorites page for Andith stories of much greater quality. :)


	2. Part II

A/N: I was determined to write the wedding night without it being smut. And then I wrote it. You may decide whether or not I succeeded.

WARNING: The M rating is here for a reason.

And thanks for all the lovely support!

* * *

"Hang there like a fruit, my soul,

Til the tree die!"—Cymbeline, Act V, Scene V

Part II

Lord Grantham scowled.

"Robert, what is it?" Lady Grantham asked, midway through buttering her toast.

"Edith," he said peevishly, handing his wife the letter he had just been reading.

"Oh dear," remarked Lady Mary Crawley smugly, "What _has_ she done now?"

Lady Grantham put a hand to her chest, looking up from the letter. "She and Sir Anthony have eloped!"

"Sir Anthony?" Mary expostulated. "Well, she _does_ like to get her way." She sneered.

From her elbow, Tom finally spoke. "Well, I wish them both well. I hope they'll be very happy," he said kindly.

Lord Grantham scowled.

Lady Grantham shared the news with the Dowager Countess and Mrs. Crawley over tea that afternoon.

"I suppose with everything that we suspected about her life in London it's the best outcome we can hope for," suggested Lady Grantham wearily.

"You may be right my dear. But I can't think what on earth the world is coming to," opined a harassed Dowager Countess.

Mrs. Crawley was the only one in the room to whom the news gave any real pleasure.

"Bravo Edith!" she pronounced. "I was always liked the idea of Sir Anthony and Edith. She's a strong woman, and I think they'll do very well together."

By evening the news had reached downstairs as well.

"Oh I'm ever-so-happy for Lady Edith," Daisy chirruped, pulling a steaming dish from the oven.

Mrs. Patmore threw her a quelling look.

"It's just, she's had so much bad luck, I think she deserves to be happy at last," Daisy explained.

Mr. Carson was not entirely pleased.

"First the fellow jilts her at the altar and now he's eloping with her! I do hope he has finally made up his mind!" he grumped disdainfully.

"I think it more likely that Lady Edith made up his mind for him," concluded Mrs. Hughes.

"Well, I hope she won't live to regret it. Poor Lady Edith's had enough regret for her age," Anna remarked as she and Mr. Bates were climbing in to bed that evening.

"I worry that she will find herself bored with an old man to take care of, but I do wish her happy," Bates admitted. "And for Sir Anthony, if you're going to have to be in a position where you need to be waited on hand and foot, being born into wealth isn't so bad."

"Having an older husband who may need some looking after isn't a fate worse than death, you know," Anna chided, and kissed him.

* * *

Lady Strallan might have been amused had she been privy to these varying opinions of her sudden nuptials, but as it happened she was at that moment wholly occupied in listening to her husband's fluttering heartbeat thudding against her ear through his slowly heaving chest. His long fingers combed lazily through her hair and his lips lay in a peaceful smile. Edith smiled as well, thinking for the thousandth time how very blessed and happy she was.

It had been three weeks since she and Anthony had left England, stopping in London for a quick ceremony, attended by Anthony's sister Mrs. Chetwood and Lady Painswick. They had then boarded a train and spent their wedding night at a charming inn in Weymouth. From Weymouth an elegant steamer took them to Bordeaux, and another train took them by stages (with considerable honeymooning in between) across the southern French countryside to Marseille. Now arrived in Marseille, the couple would enjoy a week in the bustling Mediterranean town before taking their final ship to Florence.

It was in the warm fragrant Mediterranean air that Edith and her husband-lover were now basking, yet weeks previously there had been only a robust fire to ward off the chill salty gusts of the English coast, and the newly christened Lady Strallan had shivered as she slipped out of her evening gown and into a billowy nightgown of impossibly thin pale pink chiffon. As she dabbed on her perfume, passionate images of Michael Gregson sprung unbidden to her mind, but she pushed them away. Tonight she would be a virgin to her husband, no other man existed. Edith turned to leave the small dressing chamber, but hesitated, snatching up her satin robe and shrugging it over her shoulders.

She entered the bedchamber. In the firelight she saw her husband, sitting on the bed in a pair of crimson pajamas and a dapper dressing gown, his right arm in its customary black sling, and his left hand cupping a glass of brandy. She thought to herself that the whole effect was rakishly youthening. Perhaps it was simply that she was finally looking upon Anthony as her husband, through eyes enchanted by pure love and devotion.

His eyes grew wide as he beheld her. He put down the brandy, though he looked very much as though he might like to gulp down the rest to steady his nerves.

She smiled shyly. "Good evening, my husband," she murmured.

"My beautiful wife," he breathed, delighting in every syllable. "I can hardly believe…" he shook his head a little. "I'm still surprised that you've chosen to spend this night with me—that you've chosen an old cripple as your husband."

"And what about choosing the plain, scrawny spinster?" Edith retorted, Mary's smug face suddenly before her.

He was stunned. "My love, never think yourself plain. To me you are the most beautiful woman in the world. And as for your figure…Lady Strallan, you quite take my breath away."

His breathing was indeed short as his glittering blue eyes devoured her slender form, which the firelight was casting into sharp relief. Edith thrilled under his admiring gaze. She was not a beauty, and had never considered herself to be. Gregson had thought her attractive, and so had a few others, but most men overlooked the dull Lady Edith for the dazzling Lady Marys of the world. Never had Edith felt more worth in her form and face than under the warm gaze of her beloved, a warmth which filled her body and made her feel irresistible.

Edith smiled, and took a step towards the bed.

"Edith," he stopped her, his mouth twitching anxiously, "I wanted to explain—that is—I wanted to warn you…" his eyes shone perfect misery.

"Please, don't worry," Edith urged. "I just want to _be_ with you, as your wife. I want to give you that which is yours alone. Even if you can't…."

Anthony frowned, and checked the surge of shame and gratitude that threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn't stop at least one tear from escaping as he replied thickly, "I do want so much to be a proper husband to you, Edith, but I am not sure…it has been a long time. I don't know what will happen."

Edith crossed to the bed and kissed her husband, softly and tenderly, imbuing her lips with all the compassion and love in her heart.

She released him and gave an arch smile as she lightly scolded, "Now, enough of that Sir Anthony. Are you going to seduce me or aren't you?"

He laughed, aghast. "My dear Lady Strallan, I fear you are quite shocking in your bedclothes."

She giggled and moved to kiss him again. His smile faded.

"Are you sure?" He whispered anxiously.

In answer, she kissed him, sliding her lithe arms around his broad shoulders and tangling her fingers in his wavy hair. He responded hesitantly, reaching for her with his good arm and drawing her close. Beneath her flimsy garments he could feel the gentle curves of her breasts and hips and stomach pressing against him, and a fever surged from his heart to his temples. He tightened his grip on her waist and kissed her back, drowning his anxieties in intoxicating desire, thinking that he would be happy to hold her there forever.

When the embrace ended, Edith was facing an Anthony Strallan she had only glimpsed before, one completely free of any restraint or propriety.

"I love you, Edith," he blurted fervently.

"I love you, Anthony," she replied in kind.

She sat back as he brought his hand up to her face, lightly tracing its contours. Then his hand caressed her neck and fell to her shoulder as he gingerly kissed her again, first on her mouth, then on her cheek, then on her neck. She shivered as his lips brushed her skin, each accompanied by shallow warm breaths. His long fingers found the ties of her robe and pulled them open, brushing aside her silken wrapper and sliding his hand around to the small of her back, kissing her throat again, delighting in the sweet smell of her perfumed skin, and the glow of her trembling body.

Edith clung to her husband, rejoicing in his passion, in the opportunity to give him this precious gift. He soon discarded the entire robe, brushing it delicately from her shoulders and twining his powerful fingers in hers as he kissed her yet again. She moved her left hand to his lapel, her ornate wedding ring glinting in the firelight. She tugged at his collar, pulling him closer into a deeper kiss, as his hand released hers and mirrored the movement, hooking his strong arm around her shoulders.

She broke away and reached to untie his sash, her lips peppering his neck and chest with burning kisses. She felt him tense, and his hand clutched against her back. She pulled back, looking him square in the eyes, into the shame and terror she saw there.

"My darling," she kissed him reverently, "I knew who you were when I married you. This makes no difference."

Under his worried gaze she resumed her work, kissing him again and again as her hands painstakingly unclasped his buttons and stripped him of his robe and shirt, sliding his right arm out of its sling and sleeve.

"You'd best leave the sling," he suggested, anguished.

Edith nodded, lightly placing the pale, limp arm into the sling. Then to Anthony's surprise, she bent and kissed it. She kissed the drooping fingers, the weakened forearm, the puckered, scarred flesh at his shoulder. From above her, Edith heard a choking noise and looked up to see that Anthony was weeping. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him again and again until the tears stopped.

"I'm so sorry my darling," he lamented.

Edith didn't reply. She merely leaned back and slipped her nightgown off her shoulders so that it hung precariously above her breasts. Then she looked at Anthony invitingly.

He swallowed nervously and heeded the invitation, moving forward and passing his hand smoothly over her bare shoulder and down to her waist, bringing the nightgown with him and revealing her small round breasts. For a moment he lovers sat, each drinking in the other's naked form, reveling in the intimacy of their mutual vulnerability and trust. Anthony felt a rush of relief as he felt lust coursing through him, sure at last that he could fulfill his role as husband.

He moved forward, gently coaxing Edith onto her back and kissing her yet again. The kiss was excruciatingly slow, yet Edith noticed the hunger in his jaw. She moved her hands to his hips, helping him out of his trousers. He kissed her again and again, his good arm powerfully supporting him as he bent to taste her shoulders and neck and ears. He longed to venture lower, but he was not yet so bold. Instead he yanked the nightshirt from her waist and paused, ready to do service to his aching loins.

He looked deep into Edith's eyes and asked, "My darling, are you ready?"

She smiled her affirmation, and he bent and gently entered her. They gasped together, pausing to savor the moment of connection, as if a current were running from their hearts through every extremity and binding them as one. Finally, after all the years of hope and frustration, they were truly man and wife.

Anthony began to move into her, but after a few thrusts, it was clear the strain was too much for his good arm. He collapsed forward on the bed, panting.

"I'm so very, very sorry my darling. I was afraid this would happen…"

"I thought it might as well," Edith stated calmly. "I've done a little discreet research," she said sheepishly.

He choked. "My dear, you are positively scandalous," he teased.

She smiled, embracing him again and moving him to a sitting position. She lowered herself onto his lap so they were facing each other, Anthony watching every movement with awe. She kissed him forcefully and breathed "Permit me."

She gently lifted him into position and lowered herself upon him. He needed no explanation to know what to do next. Beyond thought, husband and wife moved together as one, each fully enveloped in the pleasure of the other, becoming a spasm of heat and thrills and grunts and moans, gasping for air and sighing for release, hearts ready to burst in the joy and pleasure and love of each blissful moment. And so it was, with their arms and legs entwined about one another, their hearts pressed together, and their mouths exulting as one, that Sir Anthony Strallan and his wife sealed their bond of love, exchanging souls for a second time….and a third….and a fourth.

* * *

During one of their last nights in Marseille, Sir Anthony and Lady Strallan encountered a group of British travelers just arrived in the hotel where they were staying. Among them were two gentlemen who claimed acquaintance with Anthony, and so the couple joined the group for dinner. The newlyweds had not spent time in company since their marriage, and Anthony delighted in the chance for Edith to work her wit and wisdom around the dinner table. By the end of the second course she had extolled her views on post-war poverty, the limitations of the Representation Act, and even the Communist movement; with a spirit of purpose and affable humor that made the gentlemen warm to her, and made the ladies envy her. Anthony contributed to the conversation some, but much preferred to watch and savor the overwhelming pride and adoration he felt. What a wife he had won!

Edith too, was feeling the elation of being "Lady Strallan" in society—to be introduced as Anthony's wife, to be able to proclaim their affection and attachment to the world. She was enjoying herself thoroughly, speaking her mind as she had always done, the expression sweetened by the knowledge that Anthony fully supported her and that her eloquent presentation reflected well upon him. Yet for Edith the best part was being able to glance across the table at her husband and to see the love and pride and perfect happiness in his large blue eyes, the beatific smile fixed on his wide mouth.

All too soon dessert was over and the conversation ended as the ladies withdrew into the hotel's bustling drawing room. Anthony reached out his good hand and gave his wife's an affectionate squeeze as she passed behind him and was rewarded with a glowing smile in return. As she exited the dining parlor, Edith did not feel quite up to joining the ladies' insipidities just yet, and made an excuse to the rest of the party that she was warm and needed to step out onto the terrace for a few minutes. As she was quite flushed, this explanation passed without a murmur.

Edith pushed through two large ornate doors onto the hotel's extensive terrace, which flanked the entertaining rooms and faced the ocean. Edith strolled lazily along the mosaicked floors, light from the large windows behind her stretching her silhouette towards the beach. She leaned forward on the handsomely curled railing and sighed, pondering the change of the past few years. There was a time when she had given up hope of feeling like this. When a wedding and a honeymoon seemed luxuries she'd never experience—beyond her yearning reach just as Mary's large lovely eyes and delicate mouth or Sybil's generous figure. A time when she'd faced a life of loneliness, a life which she had almost convinced herself she deserved. The plain, unwanted sister, who must make the best of her lot in life. And now—here she was—wanted, cherished, loved—passed into the sacred office of a wife; and perhaps, she thought, blushing happily in the darkness, soon to pass into the office of a mother. And again her heart almost broke at the near loss of it all—a life that could so easily have passed her by.

Into these blissful contemplations drifted voices—passing through the windows of the drawing room into the balmy Mediterranean breeze. As Edith gradually pulled herself back into reality, she was able to distinguish the voice of one of her dinner companions, a soft delicate blonde who, unbeknownst to Edith, had taken an instant disliking to the new Lady Strallan.

"…terribly modern," she was saying, unmistakable disgust in her syrupy voice. "I'm surprised Sir Anthony allows his wife to cultivate such conversation."

"Well, my dear," said another of her dinner companions, "when a man has such a young wife, he is likely to let her do most anything." Her tone was far from flattering.

"Yes, but that's just it," pouted the delicate lady, as though she'd hit upon the greatest crime of all. "She's _not_ a beauty. Not at all the sort of young wife one marries. You get a dazzler, a face that will bring you enjoyment as other abilities fade. Not—"she spat, "a plain, bony literary playing at fashion with her bob and her husband's diamonds."

"Yes," agreed the other voice, "it's no wonder all she could get was an old cripple."

This seemed to bring some satisfaction to the syrupy speaker. "Yes, well, I suppose if one considers that she's really gotten herself a lame grandfather and that she probably has to minister warm milk in their marriage bed, then it isn't so shocking," she sniggered cruelly. "The ogre and the cripple," she pronounced finally, and her laughter clearly showed that she thought this the height of amusement.

Edith shrank back into the darkest corner of the terrace, her chest seething. "The ogre and the cripple." The hateful epithet sliced into her. Was that what people really thought? Did no one admire the bond of love between them? Or think them a finely matched couple based on their mutual intellects? Was that not what people felt when they saw the Strallans? Was it pity? Two freaks who married one another simply because no one else would take them?

_But that's true_, Edith thought, the searing poison spreading. _No one else did want me._

The old familiar tears stung as they burst from her eyes. _Even were Michael free, I doubt he would have made me his wife. Who would want to be stuck with me for eternity? The ogre._

Yet it was not only her own insults which injured Edith so. _How can they not see how young and alive Anthony is? Why will no one ever see him as anything other than his arm? _She felt sorrow that no one she met would ever see the worth in her husband as she did. And suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be holding Anthony in her arms.

And to her relief, when she looked up, there he was; watching her silently, deep concern and heartbroken sympathy on his face.

"My life, what is wrong?"

Edith simply turned tearful eyes to him.

He drew her close, tenderly kissing her hair as she clung to him and wept into his dinner jacket. Her heartbreak suffocated him, a lump rising in his throat at the thought of her distress.

"My dear, please, you mustn't cry so. I can't bear it. Please, tell me what is wrong," he entreated in a breaking voice.

Edith swallowed her sobs and was soon perched on his lap, her hand wrapped in his own, relating the whole exchange, not without some remaining waterworks. He listened in silence, his face growing more and more clouded with every insult. By the end of her explanation his face was a positive storm. He could barely speak, the tempest of emotions in him was so strong.

"You know, my dear," he managed, his voice dangerously low, "there are a great deal of worthless people in this world. But _you_ are most certainly not one of them."

Edith eyed him warily. She knew at once how stupid she had been to let someone else break into their happiness.

"Oh, darling, I know," she gave a watery sigh, and leaned in to kiss his cheek.

This small act of affection seemed to diffuse his anger and he relaxed, turning his face to claim a far more powerful embrace.

"Edith," he said gravely, when they had parted, "this will not be the last time that the viciousness of society will condemn our unconventional marriage. You must promise me not to let this sort of thing hurt you anymore."

She nodded, solemnly. "I'll try," she pledged.

"And what of you?" she asked gently.

He frowned. "It's much more difficult for me. What that cat said is true. I am old, and I am a cripple."

"And you are my husband," Edith added tenderly. "And though you won't accept it, you make me happier than I could ever have imagined."

He turned to her, his eyes full. "I hope that may never change," he croaked.

She smiled and nuzzled into his neck. "It won't," she said simply.

He sighed shakily, and vowed that he would make good on that promise. Never again did he want to see heartbreak in his wife's eyes.

Changing the subject Anthony said, "I wanted to tell you, my dear, how splendid you were at dinner."

She beamed into his shoulder. "I hope I was a credit to you, Sir Anthony," she teased.

"Indeed you were. I was so proud of you. And while that awful woman was slandering us both, Lord Wallis was praising you so highly I was almost jealous," he admitted, genially.

"Ah," she said, lifting her head from his shoulder and turning a pair of kindling eyes to his, "but tonight it is Lord Wallis who should feel jealous. For it is not Lord Wallis with whom I am going to share my bed."

"Very true, my dear," he replied, the spark jumping into his own eyes. "And as you say, it is getting quite late," he nudged her to her feet, rising himself.

"Did I?" she replied playfully, taking the proffered hand.

"But of course you did, my sweet one." He kissed her earnestly and led her resolutely into the hotel, up the stairs and into their bedchamber, where all snipes were forgotten and all wounds salved in a night of loving passion.

* * *

A/N: Again, see my Favorites for stories with much better Andith love scenes. :)


	3. Part III

Part III

The happy couple continued on to Florence, where the weather and amusements seemed divinely selected for the honeymooners. Only one thing marred the festivities. Edith had noticed it the day they had disembarked at Livorno. Anthony had been napping for the last half of the journey, and when he woke he was still so pale and fatigued that after they checked in at the hotel Edith tucked him into bed and bade him sleep through the night. She had simply thought it the strain of travel; after all she _had_ married an older man, and had been gratified to see that he had been much refreshed the next day. Yet Florence had had to be taken at a much slower pace than their previous weeks of honeymooning, Anthony tiring sooner and requiring frequent naps. Edith tried to tell herself it was the Italian heat, but even their wedded nights had begun to wear him out earlier, and when, just into their second week in the city, Anthony barely ate any lunch and then, with several apologies, retired to his bed for yet another afternoon nap, Edith admitted to herself that there was something definitely wrong.

That evening over dinner, which Anthony was having in bed and Edith was having on a small table in their room, she confronted her husband.

"Anthony, I know there is something wrong," she asserted, in a voice that fully declared she would not be put off.

He gave her one of his half smiles. "Yes my sweet one, I suppose I must confess to you at last, I am...afflicted."

A certain gloom and a pronounced weariness sagged his features. Edith waited.

"I've been trying to ignore it, to hope that it would go away…as it has before. It comes and goes, you see."

Edith nodded encouragingly.

"Well, I didn't want to spoil our honeymoon my dear, and as I say, it has gone before..." he paused, gathering his thoughts. "Do you remember when you came to Locksley House, because you heard I'd been ill?"

"I thought that might be it," Edith confirmed.

"Yes, well, you see, I had been struggling with it for a few weeks. By the time you arrived I was coming out of it."

"What is it?" Edith inquired anxiously.

"I'm not quite certain. Dr. Clarkson can tell you the specifics. Something to do with my kidneys I gather."

"You said it was a family illness," Edith remembered.

"Quite right," he concurred, "My father had it, and my grandfather as well."

"Well, is it serious?"

"Not yet," his eyes slid downward, "but in the end…my father suffered a great deal…" He shook off the memory, turning to Edith's worried expression. "Oh my dear, don't look at me like that. I've been seeing a specialist in London about it for a few years, and he has hopes that some new treatments will make it very bearable. I've been taking something that has made these last few episodes quite minor." A yawn obscured the last of the phrase. "Yet I still get quite fatigued," he said apologetically.

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?" Edith demanded.

"I didn't want to worry you, my dear. Especially if this treatment works and it is no longer a concern."

"Well, we're going home," Edith decided.

"Oh no my dear—even if I need to stay in bed a bit, you can continue to enjoy yourself."

Edith shook her head. "I want to get you home and get you well."

Anthony smiled at her determination, and resigned himself.

* * *

So the Strallans returned to Locksley House.

On their second morning at home, Dr. Clarkson came to check on his patient. Edith waited until the examination was over, then caught the good doctor as he came down the stairs.

"Lady Edith," he greeted her. "Forgive me-Lady Strallan," he corrected. "Allow me to congratulate you," he said gallantly.

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson," Edith accepted the compliment. "Would you mind giving me a few minutes before you go? Perhaps some tea?"

He nodded and followed her through into the morning parlor, thinking to himself how Lady Edith had changed, from a sharp, solitary young girl to the mature, gracious hostess—the wife—she now was. He sat down, giving voice to these opinions.

"May I say how much being Lady Strallan suits you. You seem very much at home here at Locksley," he said kindly.

She smiled appreciatively, as a footman poured out the tea.

"I hope your honeymoon was pleasant," he chatted, taking his teacup.

"Most pleasant," Edith almost blushed, but sobered quickly. "However, it was shorter than planned."

"Yes," said the doctor seriously, "Sir Anthony wished that I should explain his disease to you."

Edith nodded at the footman, who slipped through the door, then she turned her attention to Dr. Clarkson. He repeated, in medical terms, much of what Anthony had told her; that it was a hereditary disorder having to do with his kidneys, and that they were consulting a specialist in London.

"And what do you think are the chances of the success of this new treatment?"

Dr. Clarkson sighed. "Well, to be honest with you, I can't say, Lady Strallan. There seems to be good evidence that this treatment will work, but I wouldn't want to get your hopes up. The treatment might be good enough to eradicate the disease altogether, or it might simply prolong the inevitable and ease the pain of the disorder."

Edith smiled grimly. "Spoken like a physician," she remarked.

He returned the expression. "You don't have too much to worry about at present. The disease should be little more than it is now—fatigue, dehydration, and vulnerability in turns—for several years."

The tea was finished and the doctor gathered his bag and rose to go.

"Doctor," Edith's voice was strained. "How old was Sir Anthony's father when he died?"

"I believe he was just over sixty," Dr. Clarkson replied gravely.

Edith nodded with equal gravity.

"But I have every reason to believe that his son will outlive him. He has far more to live for," he concluded.

Edith smiled graciously and bid him goodbye, extending him an invitation to dine at Locksley House the following week. He accepted and took his leave.

Edith watched his car pull out of the drive and sighed. She climbed the stairs and knocked gently on the bedroom door before sliding inside it.

From the bed, Anthony looked at her with large, tired eyes. Silently she climbed in beside him, and placed her head against his chest.

* * *

By and by Anthony's health improved and slackened, new treatments came and went, some worked and some didn't, and Anthony had his good days and his bad days. Edith took it all in stride, engaging him during his good days of youthful energy, and nursing him in his days of weakness and fatigue. She found it ironic that what he had worried most about was his arm, but that that had really not been any kind of bother. With each passing year Anthony became more adept with his one arm so that his life was only slightly less than normal. When their daughter Margaret was born, he was able to cradle her in his good, strong arm, and to feed her porridge and read her books. And never once did Edith regret.

As the years passed, Anthony's bouts of illness became more severe, and his activity waned, but the Strallans still led a happy family life. With the advent of the wireless, Anthony became an occasional local reporter, his crisp refined voice just the sort radio required. Edith wrote for the wireless, not only journalistic pieces, but radio dramas as well, and it was a common family evening to sit and read through the mysteries and romances together. Margaret would thrill, and Anthony would chuckle at the absurdities of the melodrama.

And then the war came. Anthony was asked to step in to perform what diplomatic duties his health would allow, and Edith and Margaret (fifteen and insisting upon being called Meg) volunteered in any way they could. Edith turned down an offer as a correspondent, but instead she and Sir Anthony ran a kind of boarding house and school at Downton Place for children and mothers displaced by the Blitz. Yet Anthony was far less active during the second world war than he had been during the first. Age was catching up with him, and with it, the illness reared its ugly head once more.

Amid all her service, Edith helped her husband through terrible bouts of fever, pain, vomiting, and infantile weakness. And yet there were still quiet evenings in the library, when the war and the world were forgotten, when Edith and Anthony talked and laughed and cuddled—Anthony's embrace just as ardent if not just as strong as it had ever been.

Eventually Anthony had to take to a wheelchair.

"This is what I was afraid of," Anthony quipped one afternoon as Edith wheeled him from the dining room to the library, "shouldn't have married an old codger like me."

Edith smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "But this old codger is so divinely handsome, how could I resist?" she teased.

And Anthon could only chuckle and submit.

And then the war was over. Anthony and Edith rejoiced again, along with all others who had seen the hells of two world wars, who had seen the finest of two generations killed and maimed and harrowed by the battlefield.

Yet the Strallans' happiness was short lived. Almost as though waiting for peace, Anthony's illness took a wicked turn. It was worse than any before it. Anthony suffered greatly, though he strove to keep it from his wife, just as she tried to keep her piteous weeping from him. Yet he heard, and he knew, and he saw the sadness in her eyes and to him that was worse than all the physical agony of the illness.

Dr. Clarkson made regular visits to examine and treat his patient. After one such examination, Edith slipped into the bedroom. She caught the doctor's eye on his way out, and read the unspoken diagnosis there. When she met her husband's eyes, he voiced the awful truth.

"Well, my darling, this is it," his voice was weakened by the illness, yet firm in its purpose. "I'm dying, Edith."

Edith shattered, sinking onto the bed, tears streaming unbidden from her eyes. "You can't be," she sobbed, "I won't let you."

She buried her head in his lap and wept softly until his soft caresses lulled her to sleep.

As Edith slept, Anthony watched her. He loved her so very much and every moment was so precious to him. But the heartache and strain he was causing was apparent. Her lovely face was still in sleep, but lined with anxiety. Her heartbroken sobs, those unconcealed from him, haunted his ears, and the scared, sorrowful eyes that quivered on the brink of tears burned into his soul. His own tears slid down his wrinkled cheeks. How many more weeks would Edith have to suffer? The old guilt flooded into Anthony's throbbing soul, an old man marrying a young woman, condemning her to a life of suffering long before her time. He thought of the glowing young woman he had taken out driving so many years before; had her youthful heart wished for such sorrow? With a younger man she would still be living a happy, active life with many years ahead of them both. Instead she wept every day for the dying old man who would soon leave her to years of loneliness.

This line of thinking tortured Anthony's hours of sleeplessness as the illness reprieved him for yet another week. He clung to every breath, every moment of their final days together. Every time she smiled something in him fought to survive, and every time he she cried he cursed himself for tormenting her. In the end, the darkness won, and Anthony determined to finally make the sacrifice that he had failed to make so many years before.

* * *

Edith slept fitfully as her husband whispered, "I love you forever, my life. Be happy for my sake, and never doubt that I love you." He moved to across his pillow kiss her, and she reached sleepily to clasp his hand, pulling it towards her to rest against her heart.

And in the morning, he was dead, his long fingers still entwined in hers.

* * *

"Hang there like a fruit, my soul,

Til the tree die!"—_Cymbeline_, Act V, Scene V

* * *

_A/N: I may shortly create a companion collection of short pieces which fit into the narrative of Edith and Anthony's married life as I have created it here. Should this collection ever come to fruition, it shall be called "Branches" in keeping with the tree metaphor of this story._

_As a postscript: do not seek any medical verisimilitude in Anthony's illness. I am far from a doctor and have taken poetic license with human physiology._


End file.
